Notwithstanding the lady’s reluctance, Richard, stimulated doubtless by his nice sense of duty, prevailed; and they were soon so near as distinctly to hear sounds.
“The bird must be had,” said Natty, “by fair means or foul. Heigh-ho! I’ve known the time, lad, when the wild turkeys wasn’t over scarce in the country; though you must go into the Virginy gaps, if you want them now. To be sure, there is a different taste to a partridge, and a well-fatted turkey; though, to my eating, beaver’s tail and bear’s hams makes the best of food. But then everyone has his own appetite. I gave the last farthing, all to that shilling, to the French trader, this very morning, as I came through the town, for powder; so, as you have nothing, we can have but one shot for it. I know that Billy Kirby is out, and means to have a pull of the trigger at that very turkey. John has a true eye for a single fire, and somehow, my hand shakes so whenever I have to do anything extrawnary that I often lose my aim. Now, when I killed the she-bear this fall, with her cubs, though they were so mighty ravenous, I knocked them over one at a shot, and loaded while I dodged the trees in the bargain; but this is a very different thing, Mr. Oliver.”
“This,” cried the young man with an accent that sounded as if he took a bitter pleasure in his poverty, while he held a shilling up before his eyes—“This is all the treasure that I possess—this and my rifle! Now, indeed, I have become a man of the woods, and must place my sole dependence on the chase. Come, Natty, let us stake the last penny for the bird; with your aim, it cannot fail to be successful.”
“I would rather it should be John, lad; my heart jumps into my mouth, because you set your mind so much on’t; and I’m sartain that I shall miss the bird. Them Indians can shoot one time as well as another; nothing ever troubles them. I say, John, here’s a shilling; take my rifle, and get a shot at the big turkey they’ve put up at the stump. Mr. Oliver is overanxious for the creater, and I’m sure to do nothing when I have overanxiety about it.”
The Indian turned his head gloomily, and after looking keenly for a moment, in profound silence, at his companions, he replied:
“When John was young, eyesight was not straighter than his bullet. The Mingo squaws cried out at the sound of his rifle. The Mingo warriors were made squaws. When did he ever shoot twice! The eagle went above the clouds, when he passed the wigwam of Chingachgook; his feathers were plenty with the women. But see,” he said, raising his voice from the low, mournful tones in which he had spoken to a pitch of keen excitement, and stretching forth both hands—“they shake like a deer at the wolf’s howl. Is John old? When was a Mohican a squaw, with seventy winters! No! the white man brings old age with him—rum is his tomahawk!”
“Why then do you use it, old man?” exclaimed the young hunter; “why will one, so noble by nature, aid the devices of the devil by making himself a beast!”
“Beast! Is John a beast?” replied the Indian, slowly; “Yes; you say no lie, child of the Fire-eater! John is a beast. The smokes were once few in these hills. The deer would lick the hand of a white man, and the birds rest on his head. They were strangers to him. My fathers came from the shores of the salt lake. They fled before rum. They came to their grandfather, and they lived in peace; or, when they did raise the hatchet, it was to strike it into the brain of a Mingo. They gathered around the council fire, and what they said was done. Then John was the man. But warriors and traders with light eyes followed them. One brought the long knife, and one brought rum. They were more than the pines on the mountains; and they broke up the councils, and took the lands. The evil spirit was in their jugs, and they let him loose. Yes, yes—you say no lie, Young Eagle; John is a Christian beast.”
“Forgive me, old warrior,” cried the youth, grasping his hand; “I should be the last to reproach you. The curses of heaven light on the cupidity that has destroyed such a race. Remember, John, that I am of your family, and it is now my greatest pride.”
The muscles of Mohegan relaxed a little, and he said, more mildly:
“You are a Delaware, my son; your words are not heard—John cannot shoot.”
“I thought that lad had Indian blood in him,” whispered Richard, “by the awkward way he handled my horses last night. You see, coz, they never use harness. But the poor fellow shall have two shots at the turkey, if he wants it, for I’ll give him another shilling myself; though, perhaps, I had better offer to shoot for him. They have got up their Christmas sports, I find, in the bushes yonder, where you hear the laughter; though it is a queer taste this chap has for turkey; not but what it is good eating too.”
“Hold, cousin Richard,” exclaimed Elizabeth, clinging to his arm, “would it be delicate to offer a shilling to that gentleman?”
“Gentleman again! Do you think a half-breed, like him, will refuse money? No, no, girl, he will take the shilling; ay! and even rum, too, notwithstanding he moralizes so much about it. But I’ll give the lad a chance for his turkey, for that Billy Kirby is one of the best marksmen in the country; that is, if we except the—the gentleman.”
“Then,” said Elizabeth, who found her strength unequal to her will, “then, sir, I will speak.” She advanced, with an air of determination, in front of her cousin, and entered the little circle of bushes that surrounded the trio of hunters. Her appearance startled the youth, who at first made an unequivocal motion towards retiring, but, recollecting himself, bowed, by lifting his cap, and resumed his attitude of leaning on his rifle. Neither Natty nor Mohegan betrayed any emotion, though the appearance of Elizabeth was so entirely unexpected.
“I find,” she said, “that the old Christmas sport of shooting the turkey is yet in use among you. I feel inclined to try my chance for a bird. Which of you will take this money, and, after paying my fee, give me the aid of his rifle?”
“Is this a sport for a lady?” exclaimed the young hunter, with an emphasis that could not well be mistaken, and with a rapidity that showed he spoke without consulting anything but feeling.
“Why not, sir? If it be inhuman, the sin is not confined to one sex only. But I have my humor as well as others. I ask not your assistance; but”—turning to Natty, and dropping a dollar in his hand—“this old veteran of the forest will not be so ungallant as to refuse one fire for a lady.”
Leatherstocking dropped the money into his pouch, and throwing up the end of his rifle, he freshened his priming; and, first laughing in his usual manner, he threw the piece over his shoulder, and said:
“If Billy Kirby don’t get the bird before me, and the Frenchman’s powder don’t hang fire this damp morning, you’ll see as fine a turkey dead, in a few minutes, as ever was eaten in the Judge’s shanty. I have know’d the Dutch women, on the Mohawk and Schoharie, count greatly on coming to the merrymakings; and so, lad, you shouldn’t be short with the lady. Come, let us go forward, for if we wait, the finest bird will be gone.”
“But I have a right before you, Natty, and shall try my own luck first. You will excuse me, Miss Temple; I have much reason to wish that bird, and may seem ungallant, but I must claim my privileges.”
“Claim anything that is justly your own, sir,” returned the lady; “we are both adventurers; and this is my knight. I trust my fortune to his hand and eye. Lead on, Sir Leatherstocking, and we will follow.”
Natty, who seemed pleased with the frank address of the young and beauteous Elizabeth, who had so singularly entrusted him with such a commission, returned the bright smile with which she had addressed him, by his own peculiar mark of mirth, and moved across the snow, towards the spot whence the sounds of boisterous mirth proceeded, with the long strides of a hunter. His companions followed in silence, the youth casting frequent and uneasy glances towards Elizabeth, who was detained by a motion from Richard.
“I should think, Miss Temple,” he said, so soon as the others were out of hearing, “that if you really wished a turkey, you would not have taken a stranger for the office, and such a one as Leatherstocking. But I can hardly believe that you are serious, for I have fifty at this
moment shut up in the coops, in every stage of fat, so that you might choose any quality you pleased. There are six that I am trying an experiment on, by giving them brickbats with——”
“Enough, cousin Dickon,” interrupted the lady; “I do wish the bird, and it is because I so wish, that I commissioned this Mr. Leatherstocking.”
“Did you ever hear of the great shot that I made at the wolf, cousin Elizabeth, who was carrying off your father’s sheep?” said Richard, drawing himself up into an air of displeasure. “He had the sheep on his back; and had the head of the wolf been on the other side, I should have killed him dead; as it was——”
“You killed the sheep—I know it all, dear coz. But would it have been decorous for the High Sheriff of——to mingle in such sports as these?”
“Surely you did not think that I intended actually to fire with my own hands?” said Mr. Jones. “But let us follow, and see the shooting. There is no fear of anything unpleasant occurring to a female in this new country, especially to your father’s daughter, and in my presence.”
“My father’s daughter fears nothing, sir, more especially when escorted by the highest executive officer in the county.”
She took his arm, and he led her through the mazes of the bushes to the spot where most of the young men of the village were collected for the sports of shooting a Christmas match, and whither Natty and his companions had already preceded them.
CHAPTER XVII
I guess, by all this quaint array,
The burghers hold their sports to-day.
SCOTT
THE ancient amusement of shooting the Christmas turkey is one of the few sports that the settlers of a new country seldom or never neglect to observe. It was connected with the daily practices of a people who often laid aside the ax or the scythe to seize the rifle, as the deer glided through the forests they were felling, or the bear entered their rough meadows to scent the air of a clearing, and to scan, with a look of sagacity, the progress of the invader.
On the present occasion, the usual amusement of the day had been a little hastened, in order to allow a fair opportunity to Mr. Grant, whose exhibition was not less a treat to the young sportsmen, than the one which engaged their present attention. The owner of the birds was a free black, who had prepared for the occasion a collection of game that was admirably qualified to inflame the appetite of an epicure, and was well adapted to the means and skill of the different competitors, who were of all ages. He had offered to the younger and more humble marksmen divers birds of an inferior quality, and some shooting had already taken place, much to the pecuniary advantage of the sable owner of the game. The order of the sports was extremely simple, and well understood. The bird was fastened by a string to the stump of a large pine, the side of which, towards the point where the marksmen were placed, had been flattened with an ax, in order that it might serve the purpose of a target by which the merit of each individual might be ascertained. The distance between the stump and shooting stand was one hundred measured yards: a foot more or a foot less being thought an invasion of the right of one of the parties. The Negro affixed his own price to every bird, and the terms of the chance; but when these were once established, he was obliged by the strict principles of public justice that prevailed in the country, to admit any adventurer who might offer.
The throng consisted of some twenty or thirty young men, most of whom had rifles, and a collection of all the boys in the village. The little urchins, clad in coarse but warm garments, stood gathered around the more distinguished marksmen, with their hands stuck under their waistbands, listening eagerly to the boastful stories of skill that had been exhibited on former occasions, and were already emulating in their hearts these wonderful deeds in gunnery.
The chief speaker was the man who had been mentioned by Natty as Billy Kirby. This fellow, whose occupation when he did labor, was that of clearing lands, or chopping jobs, was of great stature, and carried, in his very air, the index of his character. He was a noisy, boisterous, reckless lad, whose good-natured eye contradicted the bluntness and bullying tenor of his speech. For weeks he would lounge around the taverns of the county, in a state of perfect idleness, or doing small jobs for his liquor and his meals, and caviling with applicants about the prices of his labor: frequently preferring idleness to an abatement of a tittle of his independence, or a cent in his wages. But when these embarrassing points were satisfactorily arranged, he would shoulder his ax and his rifle, slip his arms through the straps of his pack, and enter the woods with the tread of a Hercules. His first object was to learn his limits, round which he would pace, occasionally freshening, with a blow of his ax, the marks on the boundary trees; and then he would proceed with an air of great deliberation to the center of his premises, and, throwing aside his superfluous garments, measure, with a knowing eye, one or two of the nearest trees that were towering apparently into the very clouds as he gazed upwards. Commonly selecting one of the most noble for the first trial of his power, he would approach it with a listless air, whistling a low tune; and wielding his ax with a certain flourish, not unlike the salutes of a fencing master, he would strike a light blow into the bark, and measure his distance. The pause that followed was ominous of the fall of the forest which had flourished there for centuries. The heavy and brisk blows that he struck were soon succeeded by the thundering report of the tree, as it came, first cracking and threatening, with the separation of its own last ligaments, then threshing and tearing with its branches the tops of its surrounding brethren, and finally meeting the ground with a shock but little inferior to an earthquake. From that moment the sounds of the ax were ceaseless, while the falling of the trees was like a distant cannonading; and the daylight broke into the depths of the woods with the suddenness of a winter morning.
For days, weeks, nay months, Billy Kirby would toil with an ardor that evinced his native spirit, and with an effect that seemed magical, until, his chopping being ended, his stentorian lungs could be heard emitting sounds, as he called to his patient oxen, which rang through the hills like the cries of an alarm. He had been often heard, on a mild summer’s evening, a long mile across the vale of Templeton; when the echoes from the mountains would take up his cries, until they died away in feeble sounds from the distant rocks that overhung the lake. His piles, or to use the language of the country, his logging, ended, with a dispatch that could only accompany his dexterity and Herculean strength, the jobber would collect together his implements of labor, light the heaps of timber, and march away under the blaze of the prostrate forest, like the conqueror of some city, who, having first prevailed over his adversary, applies the torch as the finishing blow to his conquest. For a long time Billy Kirby would then be seen, sauntering around the taverns, the rider of scrub races, the bully of cockfights, and not unfrequently the hero of such sports as the one in hand.
Between him and the Leatherstocking, there had long existed a jealous rivalry on the point of skill with the rifle. Notwithstanding the long practice of Natty, it was commonly supposed that the steady nerves and quick eye of the wood chopper rendered him his equal. The competition had, however, been confined hitherto to boastings and comparisons made from their success in various hunting excursions; but this was the first time that they had ever come in open collision. A good deal of higgling about the price of the choicest bird had taken place between Billy Kirby and its owner before Natty and his companions rejoined the sportsmen. It had, however, been settled at one shilling14 a shot, which was the highest sum ever exacted, the black taking care to protect himself from losses as much as possible, by the conditions of the sport. The turkey was already fastened at the “mark,” but its body was entirely hid by the surrounding snow, nothing being visible but its red swelling head and its long neck. If the bird was injured by any bullet that struck below the snow, it was to continue the property of its present owner; but if a feather was touched in a visible part, the animal became the prize of the successful adventurer.
These terms were
loudly proclaimed by the Negro, who was seated in the snow in a somewhat hazardous vicinity to his favorite bird, when Elizabeth and her cousin approached the noisy sportsmen. The sounds of mirth and contention sensibly lowered at this unexpected visit; but, after a moment’s pause, the curious interest exhibited in the face of the young lady, together with her smiling air, restored the freedom of the morning; though it was somewhat chastened, both in language and vehemence, by the presence of such a spectator.
“Stand out of the way there, boys!” cried the wood chopper, who was placing himself at the shooting point—“stand out of the way, you little rascals, or I will shoot through you. Now Brom, take leave of your turkey.”
“Stop!” cried the young hunter; “I am a candidate for a chance. Here is my shilling, Brom; I wish a shot too.”
“You may wish it in welcome,” cried Kirby, “but if I ruffle the gobbler’s feathers, how are you to get it? Is money so plenty in your deerskin pocket that you pay for a chance that you may never have?”
“How know you, sir, how plenty money is in my pocket?” said the youth fiercely. “Here is my shilling, Brom, and I claim a right to shoot.”
“Don’t be crabbed, my boy,” said the other, who was very coolly fixing his flint. “They say you have a hole in your left shoulder, yourself: so I think Brom may give you a fire for half price: It will take a keen one to hit that bird, I can tell you, my lad, even if I give you a chance, which is what I have no mind to do.”
“Don’t be boasting, Billy Kirby,” said Natty, throwing the breech of his rifle into the snow and leaning on its barrel; “you’ll get but one shot at the creater, for if the lad misses his aim, which wouldn’t be a wonder if he did, with his arm so stiff and sore, you’ll find a good piece and an old eye coming a’ter you. Maybe it’s true that I can’t shoot as I used to could, but a hundred yards is a short distance for a long rifle.”